


To Build A Home

by Anonymous



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Breeding Kink, F/M, Jon is trans, Pregnancy Kink, Strap-on use, daisy is afab, domesticity kink, husband/wife roleplay, jon is the wife, jon wears an apron and a skirt in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:08:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28265928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Jon's a lovely little housewife when he puts his mind to it, although he likes it best when he can share that talent with his husband.
Relationships: Alice "Daisy" Tonner/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Alice "Daisy" Tonner
Comments: 4
Kudos: 62
Collections: Anonymous





	To Build A Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bloodsbane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bloodsbane/gifts).



> Based on some art and an established relationship AU from Bane! Originally written as a gift, was asked if I could share it, here we are. Hope you enjoy!

Dinner went in the oven precisely an hour and two minutes ago. Dressed in herbs and oils and seasonings, the chicken was a struggle to truss up and even more of a struggle to get into the pan, but the labor was one of love, and Jon knows that the smell wafting into the hallway outside his flat will be as much of an aphrodisiac as the apron he’s wearing. A discerning patron of homemaking would also be aroused by the fact that the countertops are clean enough to eat off, ditto the floor, ditto the worn coffee table that sits before the sofa in the living room, piled neatly with Jon’s books and his husband’s hunting magazines.

And speaking of his husband, Jon knows all of this is for her. That’s why he waits, pacing around and around with his oven mittens still on, like an anxious cat. She can’t be late coming home, she promised, that’s why dinner is in, he wants her to be ready to eat after she has her bath, or maybe she’ll pick him first, he hopes she picks him first --

His ears perk. There’s a familiar set of steps coming down the hallway, stolid and sure, commanding. Jon scrambles to perch himself on the counter just beside the door, sticking his arse out so prettily under the apron’s floral confines, looking back to make sure his bow is perfectly puffy and there isn’t a bit of lace out of place. He has less than a few seconds to do so before Daisy walks in, a beat-up old briefcase looking so small at her side, an oversized suit coat over her shoulders, slacks barely keeping in her powerful legs. Jon shivers with anticipation.

“I’m home,” she announces gruffly into the flat, and her nose is twitching from the smells of chicken, of cleaning solution, of Jon’s eager and anticipatory sweat. Her head snaps to him, and his knees go weak. “Back from work, I mean.”

“Welcome home,” replies Jon, trying to arch just so, his chin framed by soft, heatsafe cloth. “I’m so glad you’re home, darling husband. I -- I’ve been so lonely without you.”

“Mm.” Daisy shucks off her coat, tosses it casually over the wrought-iron rack beside the door, and brings the briefcase over when she leans over to kiss Jon’s forehead. It’s a light touch, soft on most, but the hint of a growl when she pulls back means the likelihood that Jon is going to be the first thing on the menu rises sharply. “Good to have someone to come back to. Dinner smells good.”

“I know how hard it’s been for you this week,” murmurs Jon, pulling himself up so that Daisy can see the full breadth of his outfit, and blushes deep as he feels her eyes go from the low cut on his thin jumper to the easy access of his skirt, the loose material soft around his ankles. “So I thought we might try something special tonight.”

“You make one hell of a homemaker,” she says, nodding affirmatively, and then pauses to fiddle with her briefcase. “I thought the same about you, actually. I might have picked something up for you on the way back.”

“Oh?” asks Jon, his eyes wide like he doesn’t know exactly what’s in the briefcase, and isn’t already damp between his thighs.

Daisy grunts. “I’ll show you if you turn around for me.”

Jon, still pretending to be intrigued but ultimately ignorant, turns around. He braces himself against the counter as Daisy pops open the briefcase, sliding out something he knows to be silicone, the quiet rustle of harness straps. He’s not surprised when he hears heavy fabric sliding down her thighs, falling to the floor in an artless heap before being kicked deeper into the flat.

“Up,” she growls, and tugs at the skirt gently. He pauses only to pull it up, pooling it around his lower back and hips as he keeps his eyes firmly on the counter, and expects her to put the blunted tip of her cock against him -- maybe to grind, to rock forward into him and make him guess what it is, but instead she gives him fingers. Jon has always loved her hands, so warm and strong, and so he makes no secret about gasping when two of her fingers rub rough pads over his cock, trailing down to trace the full length of him, where he’s already slick. He feels her chuckle rather than hears it, a low rumble that goes down his spine like a lightning bolt. “Real wet back here, Jon.”

“You can’t blame me, can you? I did say I was lonely.”

“And missed me, apparently,” she adds, as she pops open a bottle of something. It’s big, Jon thinks, but not that big, he’s taken worse, he just wants it in him, but Daisy’s cautious. There’s a wet sound, like she’s fisting the cock in her hand -- god, Jon’s mouth waters, if he didn’t want to swallow the lubricant he’d already be asking if he could take it between his lips next -- and then the fingers press in, parting him gently, rubbing his slick into the surrounding flesh and making him whine.

“Just trying to make sure I don’t break my pretty wife,” Daisy explains. They dip in and out, making sure Jon’s relaxed enough, wet enough to take Daisy to the hilt, and even this makes Jon tremble with delight, knowing how excited Daisy must be to make sure he’s stretched open. Another finger later, Jon has to hold onto the countertop from how full he is suddenly, and gets a soothing shush as they spread out and scissor inside of him.

It’s both too long and not enough time spent with Daisy’s fingers inside of him before something bigger and much more blunt replaces them. Jon has fully put his head on his forearms at this point, smelling the herbs on his oven mitts, but his head pops up when Daisy starts pressing the head of her cock inside of him -- not the least because her other hand seems to have found its way into his hair, tugging him back and exposing his throat. He starts to say Daisy’s name before another few centimeters slide in, and, like a broken record, stutters out the first syllable as she begins to rock back and forth, working it in to the hilt.

“You’re still tight,” she informs him, around a pant of her own. “We’ll take care of that.”

“Dinner’s going t -- ” Jon cuts himself off as she hits a spot inside of him that makes him see stars, but finds the thread of his complaint soon enough. “Dinner’s going to burn,” he protests weakly. “I don’t want you to pull out until you put a baby in me.”

“That just means I’ll have to work fast.”

And it’s a blur from there, honestly. Jon stays in that position until he shivers, clamping down and milking Daisy’s cock for as much as he can take before she curses under her breath, picking him up bodily, bouncing him on it until he buries his face into her neck. It takes a few positions and more than a few orgasms scattered around the flat before they hit the right angle for the base to grind just so against Daisy’s clit, but when it does, she snarls most of it into Jon’s shoulder, and Jon keens back like something caught in her trap, forever kept.

The chicken, thankfully, does not burn in the meantime. And when they do collapse in a heap on Jon’s freshly washed floor, Daisy promises a thoroughly jellified Jon that she’ll help him serve it.


End file.
